Polar bears

Chris was casually surfing the Net for a new picture of a polar bear marooned on a shrinking iceberg to use on his Bebo profile when he came across the news about Steven Seagal maintaining a harem of Russian sex slaves.

Geezo thought Chris, that sounds alright. He could just see it now. Hot blonde chicks with big knockers who talked like Borat. Could there by anything better?

The fantasy came alive for him immediately. A long limbed goddess with a lustrous flaxen man and eyes of blue like the deepest Siberian lake came striding toward him wearing only the tiniest of revolutionary red g-strings complete with hammer and sickle emblem, an AK47 slung across her ample Muscovite charms.

“You, Australian man, you vould like me to touch your pressure point yes?” she purred, casually throwing the assault rifle off over her shoulder, allowing her enormous yet firm globes to …

“OMIGOD! CHRIS! WHAT ARE YOUNG DOING?”

Becca, Bex. Shit, shit, shit.

Chris quickly fumbled at the fly of his Sass and Bide in no way gay jeans but it was too late. His tiny manhood, which didn’t even reach the second knuckle of the little finger even when he woke up in the morning with a serious case of pink steel, immediately lost tumescence and lay useless, like a pygmy sea slug in its death throes.

“Fucken hell Chris, last time you rooted me Harold fucken Holt was prime Minister, now I come up here on 10AM on a Tuesday morning and you’re cranking one over pictures of fucking polar bears!”

“No babes, no, that’s not what it was …” Chris began, before suddenly realising that it would probably be better to go with the polar bear story rather than tell her about the Russian sex slaves with Kalashnikovs thing.

“Why don’t you go down the zoo and fucken root a polar bear if you love them so much?” Rebecca demanded.

“Well, babes, the Royal Melbourne Zoological is a responsible organisation that takes pride in ensuring its exhibits have a humane enclosure that mirrors their natural environment as best as possible. Remember when I went to open the recycling depot there? Obviously they couldn’t keep polar bears as a city like Melbourne that experiences such extremes of summer …”

He had to duck as a set of car keys came flying at him at a million miles an hour.

“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THE FUCKING ZOO!”

And with that Rebecca stormed downstairs and out of the flat. Fuck this, fuck this fuck this fuck fuck fuck this this this!

She stuck her hand out and just like in a movie a taxi immediately pulled over.

“Where to toots?” asked the driver.

“I don’t know, just drive. Away from here.”

Fuck this. Rebecca was sick and tired of the miserable prick. Bad enough she had to put up with his endless droning bullshit about the environment, now he was actually masturbating over polar bears stranded on fucking shrinking ledges of ice.

She began scrolling through her phone with furious intensity. Stuff Chris. He might be content to jack off over endangered bears, she had more simple needs. She looked at the clock on the driver’s dashboard. 10.25AM.

She’d be getting fucked before midday. That much true. She was heading through the Bs and into the Cs, for Caro naturally, that old scrag was forever letting her know that anytime she wanted her carpet licked in the disabled dunnies at Southern Cross Station, all she had to do was call when her eye fell upon a number she forgot she even had.

Benny Cuz.

Cuz.

Cuzzy.

Hmmm thought Rebecca. She had always thought he was quite fit back at the Eagles, especially at the team parties, even if she had found the way that he always had a strange yellow/whitish crust on the corners of his mouths and eyes that often moved independently of each other a bit weird.

But stuff it, weird she could deal. The bloke was fit, had a dick bigger than a half sucked Tic Tac if the other girls were to be believed and hadn’t, to her knowledge, bashed the old fella one in front of a picture of a snow leopard.

So she did it. She pressed the green button.